


yellow

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Category: The Mysterious Benedict Society - Trenton Lee Stewart
Genre: Baking, Birthday, Birthday Presents, Cookies, Families of Choice, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Growing Up, Healing, Shopping, Short & Sweet, Sister-Sister Relationship, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and Number Two deserves more love, and how much everyone loves eachother, i have a lot of feelings about thed Benedict household, soft, yellow sunflower bowl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:41:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28358715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: The thrift shop is one of those stores chock full of oddities and wonders, antiques and lost things, anything and everything crammed into four small walls. They wonder around a bit, not really looking for anything in particular, and while Mr. Benedict runs his fingers over the spines of novels, Number Two’s eyes wonder-And freeze on a patch of yellow.Three snapshots of Number Two spending time with her family and growing up, all based around a yellow sunflower bowl.
Relationships: Constance Contraire & Number Two, Nicholas Benedict & Number Two, Rhonda Kazembie & Number Two
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20





	yellow

**Author's Note:**

> Me?? writing something majorly fluffy for the Mysterious Benedict Society?? it's more likely than you think
> 
> For flos-art! I promised them a Number Two fic a week ago and only had time to write today cause I'm a goober. I really hope you enjoy, my fine friend <3

**1.)**

Number Two turns twenty on a cloudy Spring day. It’s been raining on and off evening after evening, and threatening to do so again. She sits in the predawn light and practices her sewing, the press and slip of the needle.

She is awake when Mr. Benedict eventually clambers out of bed, but this is no new thing. They take a break from trying to capture and decode elusive radio waves, just for the day, and sit on the floor in one of the many living rooms, reading to the sound of the whistling wind and each other’s breathing. If something particularly amusing or interesting comes up, they share it with one another. Mr. Benedict, fortunately, falls asleep only twice, letting loose peals of dolphin laughter only to tip back on some thoughtfully splayed pillows. 

It is a very pleasant way to spend a morning.

She knows that their work is important, but she appreciates, nonetheless, that Mr. Benedict has declared this a day off. Growing up, her hands had been used to holding loneliness. There are calluses on her fingers from wires and tools and typing, from the kind of silence that echoes in your bones. Number Two is unused to _ this _ kind of silence, to quiet companionship and loving care, but she is learning there is time, still, to hold these gentler things. 

They eat lunch a little early, cheese toasties and salad, and Number Two talks about binary codes and Mr. Benedict talks about the application of technology to social justice. Both of them think about what they will be doing when all of this is over, and don’t mention the rearing impossibility of what they’re trying to succeed in. 

Food eaten, cutlery splayed on empty plates, Mr. Benedict looks out the window and hums softly at the filtering rays of sunlight.

“What would you say, my dear Number Two, to a stroll downtown?”

Number Two would say- and does say- that a stroll downtown is quite worrisome indeed considering his condition, but Mr. Benedict just laughs.

“Nonsense, it’s your birthday! I say this is the perfect occasion to risk the outdoors!”

She frets, but he smiles gently, kindly, and insists, and so they brave the weather and catch a bus, watching the neighborhood bleed into the city proper, watching the world go by. Upon arrival, they mostly window shop: there isn’t exactly a budget for extrapolate spending. But if there is something they need, a part for their machine or a book they haven’t read before, they buy it.

It is good, walking, talking. Number Two eats peanuts and cranberries and then little baby carrots, and Mr. Benedict tells stories from his younger days. When the rain starts to trickle down they find shelter in a thrift shop, her smiling wanly and him laughing warmly, his hand on her shoulder. 

The thrift shop is one of those stores chock full of oddities and wonders, antiques and lost things, anything and everything crammed into four small walls. They wonder around a bit, not really looking for anything in particular, and while Mr. Benedict runs his fingers over the spines of novels, Number Two’s eyes wonder-

And freeze on a patch of yellow. 

She’s not really thinking about it, when she takes a small step closer. It is a large, traditional baking bowl, inside an eggshell white, outside the colour of honey. Around the base, small sunflowers and bright green stems rise up, bright and cheerful.

Number Two has always liked the colour yellow. She grew up lonely and lost, swallowed by empty spaces and hallowed walls, and there is a sense of control to be found in finding things that are yours and keeping them. Yellow matches her, and when she wears it something inside of her is buoyed up. 

The bowl is charming and happy. The bowl is yellow. It matches her. 

She doesn’t quite have the words yet, to ask for things she does not need, but Mr. Benedict has always had eyes sharper than most. He sees her looking at that yellow sunflower bowl and smiles, grabs it from the shelf and takes it to the cashier.

When she tries to protest, words clicking between her teeth and something dark shaded over her eyes, he takes her hand and squeezes it.

“You are worthy of this kindness, and so much more.”

It is hard to protest, after that.

Number Two had grown up alone, but that evening she and Mr. Benedict make popcorn and eat it from her new bowl, playing cards on the dining table. He makes her snicker into her hands and smiles with so much warmth she feels like she is being wrapped in a blanket, feels like she’s being wrapped in home.

A beaming grin, calloused hands finding her own and holding on steady-

Then he promptly falls asleep. Number Two catches his head before it hits the table. The fondness for this man before her lingers. 

**2.)**

“So, chocolate chip cookies, eh?”

Rhonda has long swinging braids on her head that hang down to her thighs, a smile that is positively blinding, and enough tension lingering in her bones that it doesn’t show up nearly enough. She’s snarky, and incredibly intelligent, and has a wicked sense of humor that pops up at the oddest moments. 

Number Two thinks she’s absolutely lovely. 

Number Two stands in a kitchen and fumbles with her own awkwardness, with a childhood spent holding quiet evenings alone and friends made of ones and zeroes, not people. It’s thirteen minutes past two in the afternoon, the almonds in her hands are quickly disappearing, and a seventeen year old Rhonda Kazembie sits on the counter watching her.

A smile of her own tugs on her lips without her quite meaning to. 

“Yes, chocolate chip cookies. I have the recipe memorized, though I suppose, if you would like, we could do something else?”

Sunshine seeps in from the windows. The world feels almost soft, here, gentler than she knows it to be. There are ingredients on the counter, eggs and sugar and flour, and Mr. Benedict has already stopped by twice to steal chocolate chips with a wink and a grin.

Rhonda shrugs, kicks her feet against the counter.

“No, no, chocolate chip cookies are fine. I’m just thinking we could experiment with the recipe a bit, make it a little more interesting.”

Number Two is not one for trying things willy nilly without proper research, but Rhonda’s eyes are shining warmly in the light, something shy and just this side of mischievous pulling at her lips. It makes it hard to deny the younger woman anything, even something Number Two cultivates as carefully as her own sense of control. So she nods, succinct, and leans in to start.

The bowl before them is yellow, with little sunflowers painted at the base. She looks back on that birthday fondly and it makes her smile to use it, even now. They fall into a rhythm, with Number Two measuring ingredients and Rhonda mixing them in. The younger girl slowly starts to explain her senior research project, speeding up as she gets more and more into it. The lively chatter provides the backdrop as they fold flour and baking soda into the mixture. 

When Number Two tries to add precisely two cups of chocolate chips to the batter, Rhonda snatches the bag out of her hands and dumps in at least a cup more, laughing when she makes a scandalized noise.

“Listen, Number Two, the amount of chocolate chips isn’t something you measure. The amount of chocolate chips is something you  _ feel _ with your  _ heart.” _

This is factually incorrect. Number Two finds herself stirring in the extra sweets nonetheless.

Rhonda declares with a wink she inherited from Mr. Benedict, “We best make sure it isn’t poisoned,” and Number Two follows her lead. They pinch off cookie dough in amounts perhaps slightly larger than necessary, plopping it into their mouths and rolling it over their tongues.

“Hmm… it needs something.”

She blinks down at the bowl and then up at her sister, tilting her head. Rhonda’s forehead is crinkled in concentration, absentmindedly sampling even  _ more _ dough as she thinks, searching for that supposed missing flavor. 

There is something to be said for the warmth growing inside of her when the younger girl’s eyes light up, bright and brilliant. “Two,” the younger girl says, and the smile grows into that blinding grin which seems to come easier every passing day, “I got it. The missing ingredient that will perfect our masterpiece.  _ Ginger.” _

Number Two blinks at Rhonda. Rhonda beams at Number Two. There is a yellow sunflower bowl between them and something so gentle in her chest. She points to the cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and in moments there is the whip of braids against marble, the quiet slip of feet against tiled floor.

She has never had a sister before. The grooves of her hand were molded in her childhood to hold loneliness rather than this sense of companionship, this sense of contentment. But Number Two stirs as Rhonda shakes in a small mountain of powder, and she thinks she is figuring this out, that they are getting somewhere together farther than they ever could alone. She thinks that it is odd, how you can go twenty three years without any siblings, and in the span of a few months gain one as wonderful as Rhonda.

The cookies bake golden in the oven and melt in their mouths when they slide them off the pan. Number Two eats three of them in the time it takes Rhonda to eat one, and when the younger girl notices she snorts loudly into the palms of her hand, sparking off another round of laughter. 

Two more batches later, there is soap in her sister’s braids from a dish washing mishap. Rhonda is putting leftovers in a tupperware, chatting about the universities she’s applying to, and Number Two wipes the sponge over painted sunflowers and smiles. 

**3.)**

Paper circles litter the table.

Small ones, medium ones, larger ones. Number Two carefully traces cups and bowls and bottle caps with a pencil, the quiet scritching echoing through the space. The little girl before her has a tongue sticking out between her lips as she hacks away with her scissors, chopping alongside the line with careful snips and intense focus. Constance’s legs pump underneath her chair, and her face is all but a red scowl as she concentrates.

It is adorable. Number Two eats an apple in quick successive bites and hopes her younger sister doesn’t catch the errant thought. 

They are making snowflakes to decorate the windows, a slow coming project for a slow kind of day. The house is almost too quiet, now, without all those bodies filling it with a bustling sort of life, and it is never more prominent than when the hours drag long and seemingly never ending.

But they sit in a living room in the quiet warmth, snow falling outside and imitations in progress splayed out before them. Constance has been humming for the past few minutes now, a snippet of melody sung on repeat.

It is a little jarring when the noise suddenly stops, and Number Two looks up, frown pulling at her features.

But Constance just seems satisfied, looking about their work.

“I think,” the little girl says, “we’re quite ready to move on to the next step.”

“We have quite enough?”

Constance clicks her tongue, a habit she must have picked up from Rhonda, and nods self importantly. “Quite so.”

So they start folding all their paper circles, in halves and then quarters and then in sixths. A set of watery blue eyes narrow as Constance attacks her crimped sheets with scissors, cutting out tiny triangles and half shapes. When she notices that Number Two is just watching, she hastily shoves over a second set of scissors and raises an expectant eyebrow. 

Number Two gets to work. 

It is off, the quiet, the working in tandem. She and Constance do not always get along, two stubborn souls with opposite senses of how to maintain control. Number Two, in some ways, feels as if she has been learning how to be a sister all over again. In other ways, this experience is entirely new: no matter how intelligent this little girl is, she is still incredibly young, so much smaller than Rhonda ever was in this house. 

But she learned this once, has grown up from her lonely childhood into an adulthood full of life and love and joy. The surprise of Constance coming to her with this project in mind was great, but the care behind it was deeper.

They keep at it for nearly an hour, tiny rain showers of paper clippings coming to rest on thick oak with every passing snowflake. Just as in real snowflakes, every last paper imitation is entirely unique.

Constance grins up at her, gap tooth smile and a quiet building joy.

“You hang them up, I’ll hand you tape.”

Plan in place, they walk up and down halls, hanging up their decorations in the windows as they go. The task is menial, and Constance talks about seeing Reynie and Kate and Sticky over the weekend, their plans to visit the park and have a snowball fight followed by hot cocoa and cookies by the fire. Number Two responds, bringing up how she’ll be visiting some tentative new friends she met at a technological convention for coffee.

Constance sticks out her tongue and calls coffee gross. Number Two smiles her thin lipped smile and asks for another piece of tape.

Finally, they reach the front door, facing the new gallery of windows and comparing the wide open space to the meager remnants of their creations they have left.

“This won’t do,” says her younger sister, a frown building on her small features “We need proper big snowflakes for these.  _ Huge  _ ones.”

And Number Two smiles. “I have just the thing.”

The yellow sunflower bowl is older, now, a small chip on the side that has been super glued back in and a slight fade in colour. It’s well loved and well-worn, and it fits in her hands just as well as it has always done. She flips it upside down onto two pieces of paper glued together and traces yet another circle, indulging another smile and another apple when Constance seems pleased with the results. They make eight more massive snowflakes, then, and scurry back downstairs to stick them into place.

They wait for Mr. Benedict and Rhonda to come home right there in the window gallery, sitting cross legged on the floor in a way that has become instinctive, though no longer necessary. For a while, they watch the snow fall outside, and then Constance tilts her head up at Number Two in a quiet questioning manner.

“How did you get it? The yellow sunflower bowl? It’s important to you.”

Number Two sits on a floor in a house that has long since become home, in a house full of family she at one point never believed she would have. These hands are so much more steady, now, with companionship, with kindnesses, and she will hold these gentle warmths for as long as they are hers to keep. 

There are many colours in this house, greens and blues and browns. There is a violet in Mr. Benedict’s study and tiny pink fingerprints alongside the walls. In an hour or so, Mr. Benedict and Rhonda will come home full of smiles and laughter, beaming and brilliant and as large as life has always been. He will be wearing orange, she will have purple bands in her braids, and Constance will spill chocolate sauce on her red shirt.

There are many colours in this house, but if Number Two has to pick just one to describe the feeling welling up in her lungs she would choose yellow. No other colour can capture the warmth and the happiness bursting in her chest. No other colour can embrace this feeling of being right where she wants to be, matched just perfect in the yellow that is so uniquely hers. 

There is a bowl sitting on a table upstairs, face down. Honey in colour on the outside, eggshell white on the inside, little sunflowers painted around the base. It is a gift, a symbol of kindness and family, of sisterhood and companionship, of so much more. There is a little girl sitting besides her who has also been lost and lonely, who is also learning to hold something gentler in the palms of her hands. Number Two reaches inwards and then she reaches out, takes small fingers into her own callused ones, and explains. 


End file.
